Infection of a Paragon
by M83
Summary: This was it. To jump, to fall, to fly, to be free, to feel the rope suddenly tighten around my neck, to break my neck, to die, to swing and dangle off of Gotham Bridge until someone cut me down. That was it. The end... or is it? (Zsasz)


Broken and Bleeding

"Everytime he takes a life,  
he scars his own body,  
with the same knife."  
  
(A/N: Isn't that cute?)

* * *

I had the noose around my neck, I had the note written out, and I had the -courage- to do it.

Saw and smelled the river -black, glossy, toxic-waste filled Gotham river-below. Felt and heard the cars -fast and with glaring headlights- zoom past- feet, inches, miles away. Tasted the blood that came from biting my tongue just a little too hard in anxiety of it.

It.

To jump, to fall, to fly, to be free for the first time in twenty-five years, to feel the rope suddenly tighten around my neck, to break my neck, to die, to swing and dangle off of Gotham Bridge until someone got the -courage- to cut me down. That was it.

This was it.

* * *

Once there was a dead man. (He wasn't _dying_, he was already dead) 

A dead man. The one who was still living, breathing, dancing, and yearning to end it all. Oh he yearned.

Yearned.

Yearned to run his hands in his hair, yearned to kiss a pretty girl, yearned to run and laugh and tell dirty limericks and recycle. He wanted to-_yearned to_- recycle. Save the planet from pollution, home shopping television, and Oprah.

He loved Oprah.

He hated himself.

He hated being who he was -rich, in love, and happy-when it all meant nothing.

Nothing.

The worms.

They had a purpose, they made dirt. What had he ever done besides pollute and not recycle. He _had _laughed, he _had_ ran, he _had _told dirty limericks, and sometimes, he _had _recycled.

Sometimes.

But he wasn't doing it because he had been a bad Boy Scout. He wasn't doing it because he had cheated on the SAT. And he definitely wasn't doing it because he was in love.

Yes, _in love_.

In love with the movie stars and Lucky Charms and "Put it all on black" and Hannah -his girlfriend. In love with the fact that life was life and you only get one-

-no, wait, that _was_ why he was doing it.

It.

The noose, the bridge, the fall, the firemen who would have to cut down his corpse. That was it.

Life was _It_.

So pointless, so unnecessary. He didn't need it, and it clearly didn't need him.

Because what was he?

A zombie. Shuffling from task to task and happiness meant nothing even if there were dirty limericks and Oprah.

Oprah. Even she didn't have all the answers.

Because Life _is _like a box of chocolates. You _do _know what you are going to get inside if you read the little card that specifically draws out a map to all the flavors.

Because Life is like Christmas where everyone is smiling and happy but no one is sure why until they realize that Dad is drunk and Billy has got a couple new bruises on his face & a broken arm and Mom's calling the police and chewing a couple of Xanax tablets at the same time.

But that hadn't been his Life.

His life was love and graduation with honors and friends and foreign trips and his own multi-million dollar company. That was his life.

But this was it.

It.

The rope burns around his neck, the blood rushing to his penis for one last erection, the coroner's examination.

Because there had been an _accident_.

His cell phone ringing in the middle of the night, Eve -not Hannah, not yet- answering because he usually fell asleep right after making love, the rush to put on clothes and get to the hospital -as if it would have made a difference, the doctors nasal tone as he conveyed with convincingly real sympathy that they -his parents- hadn't survived the boat crash, the coroner's examination.

Always, it ends with the coroner's examination.

Screw the funeral and the wake. The coroner is the person to touch you, hold you, and treat you less like _the deceased_ and more like an eradicative project. He does this before you're put in a hole six feet under or cremated and scattered in the wind -or any other meaningful equivalent.

His parents had been buried.

The worms were doing their jobs and turning them into dirt, he hoped. And maybe one day, when mankind had finally killed itself off, they would eat through all the non-recycled garbage the was buried six feet under, along with his parents, because they had had an _accident_.

He would have an accident too. The bridge was wet and slippery with that morning's rain, and for some reason there was a rope around his neck, and for some reason he was on the other side of the guard rail, and for some reason the rope had been attached to said guard rail.

_"He should sue the city," _they would say. _"They should keep someone who looks out for people who don't know the bridge is wet and for some reason they have ropes around their neck. He could tell them that they might _accidentally _slip if they go on the other side of the guard rail; but wait, that would cost money because the guard would want a salary and benefits. We should sue the city for paying salaries for nonexistent jobs, and didn't he die anyway?"_

But he was already dead.

Because there was gambling and "Put it all on black" and "I'm sorry sir, but you are going to have to move to a different table. You've lost too much."

He'd lost it all last night.

His money, his company, his Hannah, his meaning in life. Even his Oprah.

Then there had been the mirror.

A full-length mirror behind the bar. He had looked at it to see if he needed to shave or change his shirt or walk away and never come back. But that was when he noticed something odd. He couldn't find himself in the mirror, all he could see was a stranger's eyes staring right back at him -into him.

And he had looked into those eyes and realized-

_-realized-_

_-_beneath the layers of happy memories, good feelings, hard times, and gambling -there was nothing.

He wasn't half-full or half-empty, his glass had shattered.

Shattered.

And he could have picked up the pieces. Could have gone on in the same non-existing state as he had been. Or he would have if it hadn't been for them.

Them. The shit of society.

The lying, cheating, and sexing -they were shit.

The married, ninetofive office job, and 2.5 kids -they were shit.

The "growing old together", bridge club, and baked goods -shit.

Everyone.

Oprah was a whore. Trying to cover up her nothing (and convincing most of the world too). She was naked to him, though. Driving herself to feed her wants and needs when they were all imaginary. She didn't really want or really need anything, she was only doing it-

-but not his _It_-

-because one day society had decided that in order to live you had to be and do and want because how else could you live? You couldn't just exist, you had to be something. And people worked and yearned and toiled to be something, forgetting about just existing, living in a dream world, a false reality. And everybody around him was dreaming, but he was awake.

Awake to disease and poverty and buy-one-get-one-free and toilet paper.

He saw the truth, but he knew nobody would believe him. He saw that there wasn't a truth, everything is nothing, but nothing isn't everything. Nothing is nothing is the world.

He was going to pick up the shards of his glass and slit his wrists.

He was going to take one of his dead father's hunting rifles and blow his brains out.

He was going to hang himself while jumping off the Gotham Bridge.

That was it.

* * *

This _was _it. The sweaty palms, the checking of the knots, the friendly -_but meaningless- _wave to that passing gentleman. 

_Bum._

_Mugger._

_Man with a knife and a lack of-_

_-oh-my-fucking-fucking-whoring-mother-fucker!!!_

The Knife.

It's in my hand, and sweat and blood are in my eyes.

But I can see.

_Those eyes. So familiar, so strange._

_My eyes. I'm staring into myself._

_I'm empty, broken, shattered._

See him.

The man lying on the ground before me.

_Dead? No._

_Dying? No._

_I'm _dead

_He's _dead _too. On the inside._

But I'm the one with the knife and I'm the one who knows the-

_-oh my god and why the hell not?!_

_Savoir, deliver us from our shallow, lie-ridden existence._

This man, he wants to be _saved._

He _yearns _to, as I once did for recycling hair and kissing pretty laughter and dirty Oprah, and home limerick pollution.

And who is Oprah?

And why is he screaming? Isn't he _saved_?

I'd heard somewhere that murder is easy when you know you are doing the right thing.

_And I am _right.

_And it _is _easy._

_And isn't the knife really bloody?_

_Is he dead -_saved- _yet?_

_Yes, the screaming has stopped-_

_-because oh my god and why the hell not?!_

_Because he is _saved. _And I saved him._

_Me, the nothing._

_And I must help the other poor creatures on the planet._

_Even the worms, even Hannah._ Kill the worms. Kill Hannah.

_But who am I to do this when I _am _me, when I _am _nothing?_

_And there's the knife against the Nothing's flesh._

_And there's the blood and the pain._

But it's bearable. I can bear _it_, if I can stand being _nothing._

At least for now.

END.

In case you didn't know, this is on the origins of Victor Zsasz, my favorite villian.

Disclaimer: Based on characters and events belonging to DC comics, some stuff is mine, some stuff I got off of a website, "Once there was a dead man-he was already _dead_" phrase belonging to Larry Niven, Oprah belonging to Oprah, Lucky Charms belonging to General Mills, Forrest Gump phrase belonging to Winston Groom, Christmas belonging to people who like presents!


End file.
